


Mining Your Data

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: LowRes [25]
Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Hacking and Fucking, Puns & Word Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Safewords, Semi-Public Sex, Squirting, nerd talk, van sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 06:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anonymous asked: Love your Wrench/Lowres fic & the way each chapter is through a request. I've just never seen someone do it that way & think it's really cool/impressive/awesome. Was wondering if I could make a request for it where Wrench & Low just have a day off & joke around all day with each other. I could use some fluff (:Anonymous asked: First, dear madam, I would like to say that your skills in writing are at the peak of perfection. I have been reading for quite some time (Both of Josh and Wrench) and each chapter is amazing. My fair lady, I come ith a request,(if you I'll have it) I imagine Wrench and Lowres dirty talking with each other I front of the others, the other haven't an idea of what they mean. Like there might be gaps in lows algo and she asks if he knows how to fill it. Along those lines. Again, Thank you! - RTA/N: This has been a long time coming. I hope you Anons enjoy it as well as everyone else. Thanks for being so patient with me while I get things back together. Enjoy!





	Mining Your Data

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



"Look, just… take some deep breaths, please. I got this, okay?"

Josh is having one of his moments, and while you're working about as fast as your lesser brain allows, it isn't enough for the physical manifestation of a cinnamon roll which is pacing, muttering and fiddling with some loose hair beneath his beanie. A few choice words tease the back of your tongue, but you don't let them make it further than a soft grumble. He's crashing from too many energy drinks is all. Everyone, including you, has been there but it's still slightly annoying.

Hawt Sauce also doesn't like being faced with something he can't control, and while Josh is the best when it comes to about ninety percent of the crypto-shit, this is not in his skill set. It was hard enough to get permission to access his chair, let alone use his computer, but here you are, typing, inputting code that backfires half the time.

You're making some substantial progress despite the setbacks only for DedSec's one and only Wrench - your other half - to show up where he wasn't precisely suuuuper welcome. Any other time, bring the Wrench Wrecker on, but you needed all the concentration in the world right now. 

In the reflection of the black input screen, you can't NOT watch Josh nearly bump into Wrench; scowling softly.

"No…" Josh groans, muttering the word another few times under his breath, "... no. Don't distract her. She's already moving too slow. This should have been done yesterday."

Before Wrench can say anything, you hit enter, watching the code populate a fountain of new chains and glare back at the less spikey of the two men. 

"Josh," you huff, narrowing your eyes, "you know as well as I do if you'd told me about the state of your data this morning it wouldn't be taking so long."

Josh blinks and Wrench, who is rocking on his heels with a double-caret grin, giggles. Out of his synthesizer comes a middle-school leer, "Are you cleaning Josh's dirty data behind my back?"

"Hush it," you point at Wrench, fake-glaring as your lips tickle with a smile. It's the first time you've seen him today aside from that morning at the hacker house where you left him half hanging off the bed, snoring and bare-chested… and hot. 

You give him a quick rundown, fast enough to make sure he's not still hungover but not long enough to get lost in the way his heels are spread apart in that lackadaisical rebellion that says 'chaos.' Quickly, you swivel back to the computer screen before he turns the ones and zeros in your head into dicks and balls. 

Ignoring Wrench was an impossible task, though. It's even more difficult when he sweeps across Josh's desk on his elbows, tipping over an empty can of hacker fuel in his wake before making one of those terribly unsexy, but sexy, rolling r's. 

"Didn't know my damsel of depravity had a preference for something as 'basic' as groupware and by 'groupware' I mean..." pause for dramatic effect, "threesome."

Behind you, Josh groans in disgust. 

With a smile you can't help, you quip back, "Groupware? Nope. No thanks." As if you could barely handle Wrench as it is. 

Another line of code turns red. You scowl, hit delete and begin the same command chain again. 

"Besides," you continue, "the chances of catching 'malware' are tripled. Why would I do that when peer to peer is so much safer, and some might say… way more satisfying?"

Wrench's shoulders shake in theatrical pleasure, blinking heart eyes while poor Josh paces, probably rolling his eyes and dying inside. You'd have felt worse about it, but Wrench was too much fun, and Josh has been breathing down your neck all afternoon. The hacker puns and dirty talk was a nice change of pace. 

One missed space and the paragraph of code turns red again, flustering you enough that Wrench's filth-muttering only makes you curse harder. Not even the last sip of cold coffee clears the growing arousal Wrench is causing. 

Between Wrench and Josh, it's almost too much. 

"Ugh," you lament, sinking into the chair. "Okay, both of you need to turn it off for a few minutes."

Wrench snickers and Josh grumbles, saying quite clearly, "I'm not the one turning everything into a Freudian-"

"-your constant sighing is distracting," you remind him for the third time since sitting down. 

It's not that this type of behavior is unusual for Josh, it's just that Josh being overprotective of his computer while you were trying to work things out, coupled with the fucking 'punk band personified' meant both of their unique charms are frazzling you. It doesn't help that Wrench, seeing you tensing up and grumbling adorably - to him - decides to lean forward and crank up the ante.

"Have you tried taking it out and putting it back in? Ya know, over and over again?" Wrench slips in with all the cheeky ease of someone trying to ruffle your feathers. 

You ignore him - fuck do you try - and focus on the code at hand.

"Bay'beeee, this should be easy for LowRes the Crypto Queen. You overclocked MY processor last night. 'member?"

It's hard to breathe when you're trying to stifle a laugh. Hard to ignore Wrench when he reminds you of the lengthy, gluttonous blowjob you gave him last night...

Wrench doesn't stop; breath leaking out his leather mask against your ear, "You make me want to calibrate my joystick without the latest drivers. Is it getting hot in here or are those fans not working properly??? I could go on and on and on and on and-"

Your brain farts a 'unnnng!' that makes Wrench laugh and Josh audibly thunk his head in his hands. 

"Please," Josh begs as if a little hacker innuendo is the end of the world, which it's not but it could be the end of your underwear, "make him stop."

Without missing a beat or a keystroke, watching Wrench out the side of your eye as his mask switches between mischievous emotes and happy double-carets, you throw back, "The only way to shut him up is to 'stimulate' his circuits. You really want me to unzip his files right now?"

"... no," Josh grumbles.

"YES!" Wrench exclaims, stretching his bare arms - covered in dark iconography - across the desk, pushing his spiked chin on the black, chipped surface with mad slashes glaring eagerly. "I need more RAM. RAM ME!"

You smirk, hit enter and watch the screen populate four lines of relieving code followed by all the encryption keys and one single '... DONE.' 

With a crack of your knuckles, you lean back in Josh's chair and swivel fifteen degrees to face Wrench. The masked man now has his chin propped up in his palms - spikes denting calluses - looking at you with hearts that could probably make Josh mentally puke.

With a smile, you give the anarchist a wink just to see him sigh dreamily. The dude is probably, hopefully, still thinking about that stellar head you gave him. 

"I think Wrench needs to behave himself while his 'smarties cereal' girlfriend is trying to keep black hats out of hospital files. Ya know, vigilante justice style."

Looking from him to Josh, you add, "I mean, really. What would you guys do without me?" You finger gun for the full effect and kick back in the comfy chair like you just saved the stock market from collapse or some shit… however, to be honest, this kinda thing is more important than rich asshats and their money. 

"Pfff," Wrench raspberries behind percolated leather and metal spikage, "Without you I'd be dead, or I'd stay up all night masturbating and eating junk food... ALSO, since you asked nicely, the only real way to send those fuckheads a message is to fax Ray's milky ass flaps to them. Ain't that right, Josh?"

Now that the dirty talk has ended and the youngest of the group was thoroughly invited to voice his opinion, Josh creeps closer with a slightly eager expression. He turns his chair - the one you're still lounging in - around until you hop out. 

He carefully plunks down with a bodily sigh. 

Josh twists in his chair a few times as if finding the familiar butt-dent in the slim cushion before looking up at both you and Wrench with a smile.

"Thank you," he says and then, glancing at Wrench, says calmly, "Instead of humiliating Raymond, we could ask Sitara to make a video for Prime_Eight, and since LowRes managed to brute force their encryption, we have access to their main line."

With the mad slashes still on his display, Wrench jabs a soft elbow in your shoulder and robotically declares, "She can access my main line anytime."

You tap the toe of your glitter converses, ignoring the way Wrench shimmies his heels inside your personal bubble that's always got a 'Welcome, Wrench' sign on it despite wanting to access his 'main line' right now. 

For a moment you think about Josh's proposition before stating thoughtfully, "Ya know, there's some of Prime_Eight's gear in the van - a hoodie and ski mask I think. Marcus put them in a trash bag or something after Lenni tried to take back the bunker with that simple physical hack."

From the chair, Josh thinks out loud, "A smear video," a blink, "Horatio has access to Nudle's algorithm. We could flood traffic to it. Sitara needs to hear about this." - and, as if that's all the info either you or Wrench need for the 'plan' Josh starts texting on his phone.

"So, am I fetching a bag of dirty Prime_Eight laundry from the van now too?" you ask, fearing the response. It sounds much more like a Wrench job or Ray job… or anyone else job.

Josh's eyes crease, looking more amused than annoyed now that he's back in his chair with the familiar touch of his own keys beneath his fingertips. "There's a coin laundry on Nineteenth Street."

"Someone's got their panties in a knot," Wrench says under his electric breath while wiggling his fingers down your back pocket. The action is so smooth that your lizard brain nearly passes it over as misfiring synapses but the punk hacker gives your butt a squeeze through your shorts pocket and that - THAT - triggers a second of lip-parted breathing. All the forgotten arousal, however minor it had been, from your little back and forth nerd talk comes back like a spank to the ass he's groping lightly, and you feel that first small leak of moisture hit your underwear. 

Wrench knows what he's done - knows you're into it, but doesn't say a word while you flounder like a fucking fish for some words that aren't brain sludge.

Shaking, you give the back of Josh's head a shitty salute and manage a convincing, "Aye aye, Hawt Sauce," before throwing your cunt a silent prayer for mercy. Anarchy fumes and robotic panting hums from Wrench's mask; confirming there won't be a shred of so-called sympathy. 

Under your bangs, with an upwards glance you inhale quietly to find the Masked Crusader much less humorously engaged than you'd thought. The mad slashes are still there, but his shoulders roll hunched over. Tendons in his neck lay pronounced; shadows twitching across his anarchy tattoo and any 'middle school' vibes are gone, replaced with a 'let's fuck and fuck shit up' attitude. 

Officially turned on, you swallow down a mouthful of spit and mutter to a Josh's that's already wrist deep in crypto, "Uh, I think we're just gonna- I mean, Wrench and me… yeah, we're gonna split." 

Digital emoticons flash into underscores of sexy doom out the corner of your eye. 

"... so," you keep blabbering lamely, "seeya?"

It's not really a question, and Josh doesn't spare a glance back or even acknowledge your attempt at language. All things considering, that's a good thing.

You've scarred Josh with Wrench and your's shenanigans enough to add up to a lifetime and a half.

Beside you, Wrench looks like he's ready to pounce; throw you down on the floor and fuck the shit out of you, which is why you carefully clasp your fingers above his spiked wristband and pull his hand out of your back pocket, steering the bundle of hormones and studs into a stroll out of Josh's habitat. 

As casual as possible, you think and hope. Don't wanna incite a riot until you're clear of Josh's tech after all. But, for all of Wrench's previous humor and his usual chatty jokes, he keeps quiet; staying hot on your heels. 

Right now you're imagining a couple filthy scenarios that have been on your mind since last night, mainly involving one masked anarchist treating you back after the attention you doted on him at two this morning. 

Despite frothing for it, you take your time. Wrench's stifling presence along your spine as you grab your hoodie off one of the conference chairs is gratifying, and because you know he's probably already sporting a boner, it's even more fun.

As you lead him happily up the stairs, Wrench says your name under his breath, behind leather and spikes and pounds of unresolved sexual tension. 

"Patience," you remind him softly.

Halfway up the stairs, Wrench clears his throat in that way that grabs your attention immediately. It's the sound he makes when trouble's afoot but this is the Hackerspace, and the only concern is him… and maybe yourself... 

"Back alley," Wrench says behind his Adam's apple, and tattooed anarchy symbol, sounding like his processor is running at full capacity, "or I'm literally going to die."

"Figuratively," you snark, but the word comes out much more breathless than intended because those fantasies of yours have now morphed into dingy alleyway sex at eleven in the morning. 

The hacker door slides open between imaginary-Wrench docking his dick and actual-Wrench humming behind you like a hot engine. 

The smell of freshly cut comic paper and nerd sweat, mixed with the sound of a group of teens midway through a spartan game of Grandmastery, cuts through some of the haze. 

"HAUM van," he growls behind you; against your ear. 

Fantasy-Wrench is now bending you over in the back of the van and making a brutal red glow of your ass right now. 

You hesitate in the entryway, threading your fingers at the base of your spine only to skim a thumb down the tense line of his stomach without thinking. He's so close anyway, and you deserve it. 

The throaty, animalistic sound that filters from his throat and through the mask are not what you expect, however. 

You turn at the waist and neck, eyeing him up and down. From the chub in his jeans up to the mad slashes above studded shoulders falling and rising slowly, Wrench looks DTF as hell. 

"Who knew some cheesy, dirty talk would get you all-"

Wrench shushes you with an oil-stained finger. 

Dude looks ready to fuck you six ways to Tomorrow Land before sledging the whole of San Francisco until it's nothing but apocalyptic rubble. It's the definition of hot… plus, this whole domineering thing he's going for is working if your panties have anything to say about it. 

"Van. Now," Wrench wheezes and nods over your shoulder to the comic store door so fast the spikes on his mask leave visual trails against the ceiling fluorescents, and then - less terror-porn sounding - sighs, "... praise the motherboard… you are my dream woman, Dream Woman, but you unleashed," his voice drops to old school-horror-movie-monster-man, "The Beast."

You grin until your cheeks do that apple-shape thing he likes so much; face pinkening. 

Too fast to get caught, you shove a lip-smack on his throat and power walk across the store towards the exit; a fist in the slack of his vest. 

Wrench's iron-hard dick bumps into your ass in his own flurry which gets a grunt out of him and a chuff out of you. It's cute, or so you think. 

There's a thought about running off so he can chase you out into the alley, laughing and enjoying the windy day that was shining down but you've severely underestimated the state The Masked Crusader is in. 

He wedges himself around you in the doorway, snatches up your wrist, running you both around the building to the alley like a tsunami is headed down the road. 

Outside, the weather is perfect - the breeze just right and the air itself is fresh but warm under sunnier patches between fluffy white clouds. Screw a beautiful day though. You got a date in the back of a cluttered HAUM van with Frisco's most lovable anarchist.

Already semi out of breath, you gasp out, "Damn, dude. Since," a gulp as your heart races, "when did you get all worked up over flirtatious banter?" It's said with forced humor because Wrench taking charge - while not uncommon - is intense. 

He's extraordinary. It's hot as hell, and you're not fully prepared for it to be honest… but as soon as the shaded grove of the alleyway cools your bare knees and arms, reality sinks in and the floodgates open.

"Since always," he replies in that tone that says he's in Wrench-wrecking mode and throws the doors on the back of the van open. The metal hinges throng loudly, sending out echoes as loud as double barrel gunshots in the empty alley. 

You're trembling despite yourself when Wrench twists around to pull you in by the shoulders. 

His bare, callous-riddled fingers scrape you below the shoulder sleeve on the pineapple shirt he got you a few weeks ago, and on pure instinct, you slump into his chest and place a messy kiss on his throat. Yeah, maybe when you woke up today you hadn't planned to get fucked in public, in the back of a van, with zero warning, but sometimes great things happen to 'neutrally good' people.

For a second, the soft, loving peck - with just a bit of tongue - freezes him on the spot. 

Teasingly, you kiss his throat a second time and chuckle when he whines like the Wrench you're most used to. 

Under your lips, his Adam's apple bobs. 

It would probably cull his chaotic energy if you just kept smooching on his neck like this, but Wrench is a terribly remarkable influence, and you can't stop the little graze of teeth down his anarchy tattoo. The contact makes him inhale as if stabbed via some adrenaline-soaked stiletto and, without warning, he shoves you into the back of the van, hurriedly crawling in after.

The double doors slam shut behind him, and now you're the one trembling again in the dim lighting while Wrench swipes his hood back and lifts the mask off, exposing a flushed, glistening face that says you pushed one too many buttons today. 

"... fuck," you exhale, "I'm sorry. I thought we were just-" 

Your meager apology gets cut off by Wrench's hard, slanted kiss. It takes your remaining breath away, and it's lovely even if you're dizzy and still thrown for a loop. The horny fog in your head takes over with a hard nip of his teeth and, just like that, you're a mess.

"Wah-was it the RAM comment?" You get out between kisses and hungry scrapes of his teeth, feeling eaten and consumed; moaning shamelessly. 

"All of it," he snarls and swipes his palm up to your ribs, beneath your shirt to cup one breast. The near-sheer bra might as well not exist for how quickly your nipple stiffens beneath the stroke of his thumb; delicate nerves sending a bolt down your belly.

Maybe the dirty talk wasn't so subtle - or subtle at all - but it was fun, and if it got Wrench revved up then all the fucking better, you think, wiggling over a pile of half crushed cardboard boxes and someone's sweatshirt until you find the right divot and sink back. 

Wrench follows you down, pinning you with hard hips and half-starved kisses.

For a brief moment - in the middle of pulling your shirt up past the heft of your chest - Wrench breaks the hot kiss and asks, staring into your eyes, "Yo. This is cool, right?"

It takes literally two seconds for any confusion, or remaining hesitation is evaporating, and now that he's talking and not tearing your clothes off, you turn the tables. 

"Wrench. I'm so," you gasp and shove him off and on his back with a thunk and whoosh of husky breath, "fucking cool."

Momentarily stunned by being flipped, you manage the top button on his jeans while Wrench blinks in the semi-darkness. 

Your little edge in this sexcapade doesn't last long though. Just as your dragging down his zipper to free Wrench Junior Jr. the main star shoves a thigh between your legs and rolls you back over with a high 'wheee!' of comical glee. 

"Safeword is muffin!" Wrench sings with a big, devious grin and then… with a fold and flip of his hands, you're on your stomach with a face full of unexpectedly clean fabric, getting disrobed at lightspeed. Your shorts and wet panties go down your ass with a harsh jerk and tug, leaving the cool van air to stick to the moistened folds suddenly getting stroked and fingered without mercy. 

Tight, ribbed muscles stretch around his fingers as Wrench scissors them deep and shallow, inside and nearly out and finally slip away to pinch and roll your clit. It feels like he's been working his magic for half an hour… cause the deft switch of his hand working you from behind to gliding around your hip, down your mound and back over your slippery nub gets one of those gurgling moans out of you - the kind that makes Wrench roll his r's terribly once again. 

"Ready to get your mini-VGA port overfilled???"

If you weren't so turned on by now, that would have ruined the moment, but instead of twisting around to call him a horny script kiddie, you wiggle your cunt into his hand and groan, "As lame as this-oh…"

Hot metal and a hard, slick cockhead nudges the crease of skin between ass and thigh; so close. You rock back at an angle until Wrench's dick slips between your cheeks.

He exhales a happy-headed sigh and bumps his tip around your cunt, merely enjoying the sensation of knowing you're mercilessly teased with the threat of getting your quote-unquote VGA port filled. 

"You nerd-talk, and my hard drive melts…"

"… yet your cable gets so hard." As soon as the words come out your mouth into the sweatshirt beneath your face, you pale in shame. 

Behind you, Wrench cackles, and on the last guffaw, you feel his dick slide up through your drenched folds and push forward; wedging home. 

A whine vibrates your throat. 

Your fingers clench in the corner of a cardboard box, fisting the sweatshirt until euphoric tears fill your lashes. While you both had fooled around this past week, it's been a good seven or so days since you've had Wrench's actual dick wedged inside you. 

Wrench groans behind his throat tattoo as all those thick inches fill you to the max. The sound you make in turn is about the same… maybe even less dignified but who cares? It feels so… so good...

… and then Wrench plants his tattooed hands on either side of your head, pressing his nose to the back of your scalp and says in a low, ultra-Siska, fake-hacker tone, "I'm in."

Even with a hefty dose of dick inside you, the eye roll is impossible to hold back. 

"I hate you so much," you mumble; smiling and blushing and loving him even more and more. Say what you will about some of the ridiculous stuff Wrench thinks is hilarious and fun, but he's the only person who could make you snort with a giggle mid-moan and laugh along with you while delving into your ports.

His lips stretch against the shell of your ear before whispering oh-so-lovingly how he 'hates you too.' Simultaneously, his dick twitches inside you; nearly feeling it behind your navel. 

The crisp, shady grove of the van gradually increases in temperature, coupled with the hot breath panting against your cheek - a soft kiss to your temple - and your own feverish skin. One ragged thrust of dick ups the temp by a degree and the next several slow, close rocks of cock turns the metal cocoon into an oven. 

Sweat glides beneath Wrench's fingers as he strokes the meat of your hip, finally grasping the backside of one ass cheek to press you open so he can sink that last quarter inch deep. It's the last little bit that makes you shiver - that final length that mashes your cervix and knocks the wind out of your lungs. The depth sends a bolt of tightness through your abdominals, but each thrust and stretch coaxes a fire you can't wait to explode within. 

On jelly elbows you pull yourself out of the sweatshirt and lock your arms, feeling him sit up with only the slightest change in rhythm. Between gasps and hitches of breath, Wrench kisses you between your shoulder blades, over the soft shirt material. He nips hard enough near your neck to catch some skin and cotton between his teeth.

Dull, delicate pain only heightens the spreading pleasure he fucks you with. Could you cum like this? Yeah, but you want more. There's a spot he's knocking every few thrusts, but you want to feel it more, always… forever. 

You mouth a stifled scream and look upwards; sweaty hair spilling across your blurred vision. 

The van is one of those cargo vehicles, with an extended front seat that crests in a headrest about two feet off the ceiling. You grab said headrest with one hand, bracing yourself as Wrench grunts and fucks you hard; now fisting your ass in both palms so he can bounce you down in his lap while rocking upwards. 

At this angle, you start seeing stars, but still… you wanna be closer - you want him deeper. 

"H-hold on," you gasp, feeling like your about to fall back into his chest or back on the van floor.

Breathing hard enough it ruffles the hair at your neck, Wrench pauses about eight inches deep and blows a lungful out like someone stopped him mid-marathon.

You grab the headrest with your other hand, hold on tight and lock your arms a second time.

"Ready."

Wrench doesn't ask if you're sure about the whole 'ready' thing. He knows you are, but it's still something you've come to expect out of him because he's just sooo gallant after all, but when he takes a gulp of air, digs his fingers into the fat of your ass, and proceeds to fuck you so hard and fast your tits begin bouncing out the flimsy bralette… well, it's not just the rough fucking that sends a thunderbolt up your belly. 

Ten seconds in of your clipped shouts and gasps, the van starts making a not so subtle metal squeak as you white-knuckle the headrest - ass lifted in his hands - and take each swift piston of pierced dick like a champ. If this was an Olympic sport, you think you'd have a chance at bringing home the medal, because… holy shit… you can't remember the last time he's fucked you like this.

At this point, he's not just hitting that spot that you want each time, but bruising it; demolishing your resolve and vocal cords because you're pretty sure the half-shouting is more like a pornstar scream. 

Every thrust smacks that spot until you realize what that spongy knot is. It's the nerve bundle he usually goes for when trying to get you really messy, and it's all you can do not to give into the warm, wet feeling simmering in your lower pelvis. 

A sudden, loud squelch of sound makes your face run hot, and that nervous, anticipatory feeling grows. 

Shit. Fuuuck. You hadn't thought this through, but it's too late to go back and would you even if you could? The worst that could happen isn't so bad that it'll make you stop or beg him to stop. The feeling is so fucking fantastic that a sewer line could burst beside the van and you'd keep screaming and fucking down into his mindless pace. 

"Rrr-" you attempt on reflex, unable to be the voice of reason because Wrench grabs the headrest beside your fist, taking your chin in a sweaty, cluster of rough fingers, and covers your lips into a wet kiss that's uncoordinated at best. Your screeching muffles, turn into high hiccups while trying to kiss him back while getting happily destroyed.

Wrench keeps tossing that dick up and down, rocking and rowing his hips while you whine and tremble; overflooding. 

Dull teeth scrape down your chin. You whimper and start drooling as a line of sweat beads down your neckline. 

The whole situation is wet enough with the sweat, spit and half-missed lip-locking that at a certain point, you stop holding yourself back. Not like you could do it much longer anyway. 

"Cumm'in," is all you can offer, but it's said in a way that Wrench has heard before. It's a warning as much as anything else. 

While he's refocused on pummeling your insides sloppy, you hang your head down in slight mortification, suffering the growing boil of pleasure that outpours in your stomach, racing like wildfire up your limbs to your fingers, down your legs to your toes and up your neck around your temples. 

Wrench grabs the back of the front seat with both hands and jackhammers that bundle of hidden nerves until you're spilling around him like a busted dam. The euphoria still comes with a lick of shame despite the muffled sound of Wrench's gleeful groans and moans mixing with whatever obnoxious noise you're making. 

Fluids trickle down your thighs, peppering your calves and the floor; staining the sweatshirt and whatever else is cushioning your knees. A small gush makes you cry, but it's so good, you were sorta prepared for that to happen. 

Behind you, still slapping his hips up against your wet ass, Wrench grunts with each inhale, "RAM. RAMMM. RAM…"

Your whole body breaks out in the sudden peak of a full-bodied orgasm to rival your top ten list of climaxes courtesy of Wrench, but… the mess… damnit…

"Hnng," your throat expels as you keep cumming; cunt sucking around his cock with puffy, happy muscles that contract and tighten around his suddenly very slippery, very solid cock. It's almost like his dick has gone from rock solid to diamond hardness. 

"Yess. Yes. YES!" Wrench goes lightspeed-fast thanks to all that soppy, sleek ejaculate but he doesn't last long.

Just as tears start dribbling off your lashes to the abyss between your knees and your arms begin shaking in earnest, Wrench drops his face in the crook of your shoulder and lets go. A pleasure-heavy shout, almost like a throaty hiss, makes you tremble a second time - not cumming… but close.

There's so much already that you barely feel it when he actually cums, barely feeling the near-imaginary twitch of cock and… finally… the swell of sticky, thick jizz as it leaks out and down the glistening slope of your inner thighs. For a weird, hazy second, you wanna scoop up Wrench's cum and finger it back inside, but he's still mashing his hips up against your ass like he's a robot stuck in a loop, only for his battery to finally drain in one last 'hoorah' of electric fizzle.

"... my main line," Wrench whimpers as if he's been castrated by your insides, which - despite not being one hundred percent sure how you're still kneeling upright - you laugh. It's a weak laugh, sure, but it turns into a chuckle and then, you're both barely holding onto the headrest, cackling like a couple morons in the post-fuck glow.

Another tear slips down your cheek as you lean your head back, getting a wet kiss to your jawline from Wrench before he pulls away; wet, semi-stiff cock springing out your folds noisily.

You blink away the haze of tears, but everything's still a big ol' blur. A weak slap to your ass reboots your hard drive enough to notice the pattern on the sweatshirt beneath your knees.

Reality is funny sometimes. 

"Dude," you breath, still starved for oxygen and afraid to move because moving means acknowledging the fact that Wrench got you to… squirt… again, and also… 

"We just fucked on the Prime_Eight hoodies… and… they're fucking wet."

"... hot."

You blush so hard it feels like all the blood is ballooning your cheeks. But before you can fast-track your way into mortification town, Wrench grins loudly. He strokes the little spank mark on your butt lovingly and exclaims quite proudly, "That's number five off the bucket list, baby!"

"I mean," you think about it for a second while your head spins slowly to a standstill, "hacker pun based sex in a van? I think that's on my top twenty list at least. But," you sigh, feeling so wonderfully sore, "to be fair… you've already helped cross a lot off my bucket list."

Wrench smoothes his palm around your backside to your stomach and thumbs the divot of your navel while inhaling the hair that's ruffled against your ear. 

"Samesies," he breathes.

You snort happily as he tugs you back to lean into his naked hips and, with a little sound of discomfort, you release your death grip on the headrest and slump into his lap like a ragdoll. 

Finally, feeling the aftereffects of an orgasm like THAT, you cringe and mutter unhappily, "My shorts are ruined. These clothes are ruined. You ruined me, ya know."

"Mmhmmm," he hums, obviously more than proud of himself. 

You can't and don't really wanna muster the energy to complain, besides, what's there to complain about?

The way Wrench pulls you into him, leaning himself back against the van wall so you both can slump in the afterglow, is sweet and even his not-so-sweet, and totally pervy groping of your tits is still loving. Somehow.

You moan and shift down between his legs, enjoying the warmth of his flaccid dick and balls with a cheeky smile. 

Sharp fingers pinch your nipples into hardness through your pineapple shirt like it's a chill, lazy thing to do. It feels nice, so you shut your mouth when you wanna admonish Wrench for his precise thrusting - professional fucking - causing a particular reaction in you.

It's not like you don't like it - the 'squirting' - but it was better in the shower or on a towel and not all over your clothes or the outfits you guys were gonna use for a smear video.

Ugh, now the word smear sounds awful.

Behind you, Wrench's chest vibrates with a snarky laugh before his fingers give your tits a honking squeeze, "Some grumpy kid did mention the laundromat down the street. Why don't you take these off," he toes the rumpled shorts and panties around your ankles with his chucks, "I'll pop down to HQ, grab some of those yoga pants, and we'll hack one of those new washer units. Ten bucks say I can set them all to deep rinse at ten-times the soap output than recommended."

"That's a shitty bet," you sigh, feigning boredom, but grin outside of his view and start kicking your ruined clothes off your flashy sneakers with wild abandonment, "but I'll take it."

"Just like you took my mainline!"

Or maybe you'll just smother him with these damp clothes to teach him a lesson? Naw… he'd enjoy that too much. The freaky fucker. 

Instead of assaulting him with his own accomplishments, you agree with the plan, sealing it with a backward handshake, a kiss on the nose and await the yoga pants from the newly crowned VGA port destroyer.

The list of names Wrench has amassed for himself will be his downfall. Maybe. Unless you get to him first.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! It's been so long since I've posted something that I started getting nervous to even post at all. So, I hope this was fun to read because I'm eager to get more stuff finished and posted.
> 
> Big thanks to Kiki for looking this over for any major issues. <3
> 
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